"The attack is psychological... and powerful."

I take this time to pay homage to someone who has had a great influence on my life and to this day commands the same level of respect as when I was a young man. I humbly salute you… Regan.
 

Not Reagan people… Regan. Reagan is an ex-President. Regan is the little girl who survived the onslaught of a satanic possession in The Exorcist. For she and a pack of invertebrates were responsible for scarring my psyche.

As a kid I remember staying at my grandmother's house watching late night movies on cable T.V. long after she had gone to bed. I would sneak out of my room, tip toe over to the living room and ever so quietly turn the knob (yes… the knob) of the thirteen-channel relic. One night they were playing a movie called Squirm. I was tormented for life. The film was about a bunch of earthworms that go mad when a broken power line hits the ground and electrocutes them. They ooze out of the earth and go on to consume the residents of a nearby town. They weren’t giant worms but they would crawl, in great numbers, through peoples flesh and proceed to devour them from the inside. This was the most terrifying thing I had ever witnessed. I actually developed a small phobia for worms. This was further accentuated when I ran through a pile of garbage while playing cops and robbers (as young boys do) and slipped. I crashed onto the pavement but immediately stood back up. I checked myself for blood and looked to the ground to determine what had made me slip. Maggots… millions of maggots. They were all over the bags, all over the ground and… all… over… me. SQUIRM! I locked up and screamed at a pitch that could bust the eardrums off a dog. Every hair on my body was on end. I snapped out of my frozen state and ran to my grandmother’s house all the while shaking and slapping myself to insure I killed as many of the little bastards as possible. From a distance I must have appeared to the neighbors as an infantile maniac. I ran into the shower where I not-so-much bathed but rather scratched my entire body with soap. All the time I secretly prayed that they wouldn’t wiggle their way into my skin or worse… GOOD GOD! I checked every orifice from my nostrils to my ear holes and yes… the down belows. I bombarded my entire body with shampoo and whatever else I could find. If there had been Clorox nearby… I would have used it. I had never been nor have ever been that clean.

I no longer scream and slap myself in the presence of worms but maggots still give me that little shiver in the back of my neck. As an adult I took it upon myself to re-watch the films of my youth to see if they had equal impact. When it came time to see Squirm… I was ready. My god… what a piece of crap. It had instilled in me a fear that I have all but extinguished from my mind (and for that I will remember it fondly) but the movie itself no longer held it’s wicked grasp over me. I could easily watch it without reigniting that level of terror. “Hey” I said to myself “Maybe the Exorcist won’t be so scary anymore either!”

Idiot.

Why? Why does this movie still have the same effect it did when I was younger? Why have I outgrown all the others like Jason, Freddy, Meyers, Chucky, Pinhead and the earthworms of Squirm… and yet not the disembodied form of Captain Howdy?

There was a level of realism to The Exorcist and growing up in Puerto Rico (a predominantly catholic country) you learned to respect or at least acknowledge the power of the occult, regardless of what you believed. The characters didn’t just accept the entity as matter-of-fact like in other movies either. Poor Regan had to undergo a harsh series of medical exams, which took up a good portion of the film, to prove it wasn’t something physical or psychological. When the tests revealed nothing… then you realized… uh oh! Could it be? Nothing about this film was exaggerated. Even the most horrifying moments were played with a subtlety that managed to disturb rather than scare and, let’s face it, “disturbing” lingers. Enter the hero… Father Merrin, spiritual badass. Watch him as he matches wits with the beast. Watch him as he stands his ground in the face of pure evil. Watch as his faith never dwindles. Watch as he… has a supposed heart attack AND DIES?  HOLY S**T! The exorcist is dead!? But… who’s gonna beat this thing now? Enter Father Karras, priest of wavering faith. He is a man on the verge of losing all hope and upon seeing his fallen master, stands upon the very edge of sanity and his own beliefs. This was not some one-dimensional persona running from a demented cliché… this was a fully developed character and, along with Regan and her mother, made me actually care (Something few horror movies achieve… In fact there comes a moment in most scary movies where you find yourself cheering for the bad guy.) Needless to say, Karras takes on the creature, tricks the beast into his own body and throws himself out the window rendering the demon trapped inside his dying carcass. The girl had survived but you still felt like throwing up. Still do. Gotta love that.

When the credits are over and it’s time to go to bed… that’s when it hits. No more deep fear of worms and no real fear of demons but, just in case, check the garbage can and, if only for tonight, the lights stay on. Good night and Happy Halloween.

"Wait, young man. You cannot escape destiny..."

What was the best thing about college?

The academic experience infused in me a sense of social responsibility and purpose where I… just kidding. It was about making new friends. In high school you kind of dealt with what you were given. You chose the people closest to you in thought and prayed you were cool enough not to be the group of kids that got it’s ass kicked. I had seen enough John Hughes movies to know and understand the perils of the high school fiasco. Thankfully, I was not in that group. In college, however, you seemed to have more of a choice in the friend selecting process and unbeknownst to us all it began by simply selecting a major. You were studying a particular subject surrounded by others who shared the same interest in the topic. I had chosen art so I was surrounded by more creative minds than I had ever known before. Introductions were made, hands were shaken and bonds were formed that still stand to this very day. (Oh… and the girls in college were hot too.)

My girlfriend in college (we shall call her… Katherine) studied drama at the University of Puerto Rico. I was over at La Escuela de Artes Plásticas (School of Fine Arts) trying to figure out exactly what major appealed to me the most. Sometimes between classes (and sometimes during) I would drive over to the UPR to visit Kate on the off chance that we could make out under a tree or something.

She had introduced me to a lot of people at her university and among them was a motley little crew of people that included graphic designers, actors, writers, musicians and most importantly… movie fans. Suddenly I was able to engage in conversations about film that ran deeper than things like “Wow…that was cool.” and “You could totally see her boob. Best movie ever!” Truth be told, at the time, my knowledge was limited to mostly Hollwood blockbusters. Among the crew of intellectual degenerates was a bizarre individual whose diminutive stature and bright blue hair made him stand out from the crowd. We were about the same age but I immediately got the sense he was better informed about things than I was. He spoke mostly of music but when engaged in the topic of cinema, he seemed to show an equal amount of enthusiasm. We quickly became good friends mainly out of our mutual fascination with Beavis and Butthead and all things MTV. His name was Danny.

One day, while hanging around the UPR halls waiting for Katherine to finish her classes, Danny showed up with a small dark box in his hand. It was a VHS tape. He was passing it around to the group. They handled it with a sense of reverence and Danny seemed very proud and protective of the little cassette. I finally got a glimpse of the plastic anomaly. The title read: Nosferatu. I had heard of this before. I knew it was a silent movie about Dracula or something. A silent movie… I had to see it.

He agreed to hang out and watch the movie with me (certain things you just don’t lend.) and while it was only a VHS version and not the original celluloid masterpiece you couldn’t help but feel that you were in the presence of something that had to be treated with the utmost care.  At first I feared I would fall asleep but as the film progressed I was mesmerized… truly mesmerized by this beautiful and haunting tale of love and obsession with no color and no sound. Questions arose… questions about technique and visual narrative... questions about the subject I hated most in high school… history! How must it have felt to see this for the first time back in 1922? It must have scared the crap out of people. The Count had to have been the most terrifying creature people had ever seen! What was going on in Germany in the early 1920’s that could spawn such a transcendent film style that I would later come to know as German expressionism? The lighting, the set design, the composition along with the dust and scratches of a century old film had sent me to a time and place I had never given a second thought to before.

I went on a hunt for all the silent movies I could find. I devoured my way through the obvious classics like Metropolis and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari not to mention the D.W. Griffith epics. It wasn’t enough! I wanted to go further back. Back to beginning. Where did it start? How did it start and who started it? I was overwhelmed by all the names and countries… Lumière, Méliès, Muybridge, Eisenstein, Guy-Blaché, Feuillade, Murnau, Edison, Gance and Lang to name just a pitiful fraction of the pioneers involved. There was more to this thing than just the big special effects and loud explosions I was used to seeing. This was beyond the Hollywood flicks I had grown up with. This was the origin… the birth of a medium that would haunt me for the rest of my life. I wanted to know more. I wanted to know… everything!

Art school, cute girlfriend, band of misfits, guy with blue hair and a VHS copy of a buck-toothed vampire. I love origin stories. 

"Obsess much?"

It’s disgusting.

I KNOW!

I started my VHS collection sometime during my first years of college when a Suncoast video store had opened up at the mall. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Rows upon rows of video cassettes in their bright colored boxes. Candy. The concept of owning a movie was slightly foreign to me. I was used to renting. After the great Blockbuster debacle of 94 where I wound up having to pay $40.00 in late fees, I realized that I was too irresponsible for the rental game. Here I had only to pay from ten to twenty dollars and the movie would be mine! Forever! The first of my collection… Ace Ventura Pet Detective. I KNOW! I know! I was fresh out of high school and Jim Carrey was brand new. So it’s a valid choice!

In a short amount of time my collection had grown to about 200 and I was feeling like a movie god. Without warning some bastards came up with a new format called DVD. I had seen a demo of Assassins playing in high resolution at one of the video rental places and noticed that it did indeed look better. I think what truly amazed me was that I was sold on a Stallone and Banderas film. While many people said it wouldn’t last, I had a feeling the format would take hold once the prices went down. Crap… I had to have one. To make matters worse, my friend Julio, who was employed, had bought one of the coveted devices along with a copy of The Fifth Element. He invited a few of us over to bear witness to the grand event. We sat down, he loaded up the disk, the machine purred and the movie began. IT LOOKED AWESOME! Crap… now I really have to have one.

First DVD

I was finally given a DVD player for Christmas sometime after Hurricane Georges pulverized the hell out of Puerto Rico. I set out to build my collection again. I would eventually replace many of the VHS tapes with their new DVD counterparts. This time it began with Dark City (Love that movie). As the years went by and I graduated college and landed my first few jobs I felt… I sensed… no… I knew… I was screwed. A large portion of those checks was going to be sacrificed to the dark lord of cinema. I bought everything. It was bad.

On a positive note it kept me away from other potential addictions such as drugs or alcohol. (This is me trying to justify what some have referred to as “my disease.”)

Some new, some used but never copied… 2,252 DVDs align my walls and each has its own story. Throughout the cacophony of people saying that I was sick or nuts or just plain stupid… one voice stood out and asked “Oh… so you’re a movie collector?” and it made me think. A collector. A film connoisseur. Nope… I’m probably just sick.

Ah… let’s not forget the indelible beauty of High Definition that can only be achieved through Blu-ray! SWINE! EVIL CORPORATE MONEY HUNGRY PIGS! (My Blu-ray collection began with Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and it looks fantastic.) BUT THEY’RE STILL BASTARDS!

"I don't know, I'm making this up as I go."

So there I was floating around in my amniotic abode at the Hotel Madre Mia, enjoying the free room service and complimentary pre-chewed popcorn when I was suddenly startled by the muffled sounds of what could only be... I had no idea what it could be. I hadn't even been born yet so I had no way of knowing what I was listening to. It was deafening. It was relentless. According to my sources it was gunfire!

Puerto Rico: circa 1974. My mother had taken it upon herself to frequent the local drive-in while I was still simmering in the womb. It seems that the diversified theater only played one of two types of movies… cowboy movies and beach films. The beach films were the typical teenage romps with musical numbers dedicated to some guy named Frankie and his frickin surfboard. The cowboy movies, on the other hand, had little if no singing but a whole lot of gunplay. I am told that with each subsequent pistol shot, I would shift and kick within the confines of my inundated studio. OF COURSE I WAS KICKING! I was submerged in a thick liquid with limited moving space! It must have been like what fish feel when you tap on the glass and yell asinine comments to a creature that has no idea what the hell you are talking about. Deep thuds and nowhere to run. Scared out of my undeveloped little mind while mom was sitting back somewhere in the outer realm sipping a Coke and chugging down a bucketful of snacks wondering why Little Baby is so upset.

She tells the charming tale about how my passion for film began while she was still pregnant. Perhaps. I love movies. However, while I have a great respect and understanding for all genres, I am not a big fan of cowboy flicks and musicals. Weird.

I cannot in all honesty tell you what my first personal movie experience was. No one can confirm this either. I can however share my first memory of going to the movies. I was seven years old. I was hanging out with my cousin Alex and his family. I’m not going to go into some romantic diatribe about how I remember the smell of the concession stand or the murmur of the crowd as they awaited with anticipation for the cinematic event to begin. I really don’t remember that level of detail. For all I know the lobby smelled like vomit and the people talking behind me were spewing out obscenities and death threats. I do, however, remember the huge red curtains covering the entire screen. They were big… and red. Suddenly they opened.

I remember the lights going down after being bombarded with previews. I remember a mountain. I remember a jungle. I remember a gunshot and a filthy looking man. Most importantly I remember the filthy looking man running for dear life from THE BIGGEST ROCK I had ever seen! OH MY GOD! IT’S GONNA CRUSH HIM! AHHHHH! He charged through a cavernous tunnel and dove straight out of the cave while the boulder slammed the entrance shut. I was wide-awake. My heart was pounding. I was seven years old and I was in awe!

It had begun.

And yes… I do realize that my fascination with film began with a hero who carried a gun (which he used quite a bit) while dressed in a manner very similar to that of a cowboy... only cooler.